


Do You Get the Gist of the Song Now?

by Riffir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caning, Dom/Sub AU, M/M, Masturbation, Riding Crop, corner, mouthsoaping, words taken directly from S2E3 and redone as my own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riffir/pseuds/Riffir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the courtroom scene in Season 2 Episode 3 (as was obviously some of the dialogue that I blatantly ripped off), SubSherlock refuses to play nice in the courtroom and is sentenced to judicial caning.  As well as John's censure later on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Get the Gist of the Song Now?

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed and not Britpicked. Also not entirely certain where this idea came from. Spoilers from the new season.

“You remember--”

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t glance away from his view out of the window. 

John didn’t even pause. “Remember--”

“Yes.” He didn’t need to rehash what he’d already been told. He remembered everything she’d said, would be able to remember it all until the day he died or lost his mind. Whichever happened first, though it all sounded like the same thing in the end.

“Remember what they told you. Don’t try to be clever--” Sherlock scoffed at that, and John faced forward again, obviously searching for patience somewhere in the back of the cabbie’s headrest. “Just keep it simple, and brief.”

“It’s a tragedy when the star witness can’t come across as intelligent”

“Intelligent is fine, but let’s give smart-arse a wide berth”

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. Dull. Not to mention a waste of time. “I’ll just be myself.”

John swiveled around in his seat. “Are you listening to me? I’m only warning you once, Sherlock.” One hand reached toward the back of Sherlock’s head. He could feel the warm grip of fingers against the nape of his neck, and he allowed John to pull him around so they were eye-to-eye. “I’m not going through a repeat of last time. If you’re called in contempt again, I’m not bailing you out; I’ll let the courts sort you. Is that clear?”

A tic pulsed in Sherlock’s face. The courts, naturally, were less 21st century to registered Subs than they were to Doms or even Switches (who had their own set of socio-political issues to work through). A Sub in contempt meant a regulatory twenty-four strokes. Thankfully, the birch had long since been outlawed as “cruel and inhumane,” as had the thicker canes and whips. Not that most Doms didn’t own or have access to them; they weren‘t outlawed for common use, after all. 

Sherlock had only been caned twice by someone who wasn’t a partner, once during his time at boarding school, and the other by Lestrade when he’d arrived high at a crime scene. And while both memories served as particularly interesting masturbation fodder, neither had been remotely pleasant at the time. The cane had never really been one of his favorites: the after affects were nice, but the focused, deep thud usually kept arousal at a minimum. 

Afterwards, however…

Fewer things helped spice up the bedroom like a freshly welted arse. 

A gentle pinch on the inside of his wrist drew Sherlock’s attention back to the present. John had one eyebrow lifted, clearly awaiting some vocal answer to his question. And from the grip on Sherlock’s forearm, he’d be content to wait all day in the cab, meter running and all, until he received an answer. “Yes,” Sherlock said finally, and pulled away from John’s grip. 

~~

Unfortunately, the trial went exactly as every other trial that Sherlock had been a witness in had gone: it was tedious, both lawyers asked pointless questions, and in the end he’d nearly made two jurors cry. And above it all, in the galley, just a flick of an eye away, sat a stoic, clench-jawed Doctor John Watson. 

Really, contempt was just inevitable. 

The bulky, square-jawed Dom who escorted him down to the tombs gave him a sympathetic glance, even as he kept Sherlock’s right arm tightly in hand. “Bad day, eh?” 

Sherlock briefly considered informing him that no, a bad day was waking up to a Sub who burned your toast every day and couldn’t do the laundry to save her life, as the crumbs on the guard’s trousers and badly hemmed pant cuff’s suggested, then bit his tongue. It’d be his luck that the Dom called in to punish him would be the same one he’d insult, and they didn’t need an actual, personal reason to beat him. “Not my best, no,” he said instead.

It wasn’t the worst caning he’d ever endured. That prize actually belonged to Seb. It also wasn’t the most emotional (Victor got the credit for that one, the ship-jumping bastard). It was simple, straightforward, and clinical: twelve individual stripes laid out in symmetrical, equally spaced lines. He was lucky they hadn’t gone for the full twenty-four; perhaps John had paid his way a bit after all. 

~~~

“What did I say?” John asked, rather unnecessarily, as Sherlock was released. He stood with his back against the counter, and waited for Sherlock to sign the necessary documentation to be released. Sherlock kept his gaze on the paper in front of him, and refused to meet the eyes of the large Dom behind the counter. Did the Justice Department not hire any Subs outside of the Forensics and Coroners’ offices? “I said don’t get clever.”

“I can’t just turn it on and off like a--” Sherlock cut himself off and turned toward John. He was tender, and could realize in a ironically detached way, that he was emotionally primed to go off. Wonderful: yet another stereotype he could help prove-- the Sub who isn’t punished properly will be miserable and take it out on everyone around him. “Well?” He could still feel the flush up the back of his neck, and the heat in his arse was a hateful distraction. 

John didn’t budge, but gestured to the door. “After you, gorgeous.”

~

 

John stared, brooding, out of his window, apparently fixated on the buildings that rushed past. Sherlock, for once happy to keep the status quo, kept his own gaze on John’s reflection in the glass, and did his best not to fidget. He could feel every imperfection in the cab seat, as well as the stitching of both his pants and trousers against welted skin. The ride was simultaneously far too long and over too quickly; briefly, Sherlock considered a theoretical paper that discussed pre-punishment anxieties and the passage of time for Collared Subs. Then John paid the cabbie and Sherlock dismissed it as an irrelevant paper: too much subjective material to form any solid conclusions. He allowed John to grasp his arm above the elbow and escort him up the stairs to their flat. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson’s door was firmly closed: hopefully the landlady was out.

“Are you done with the case? Anything else you need to do with Lestrade, any reason he’ll be calling?” 

Sherlock shook his head. The case, once things had started rolling, had been fairly simple. Now it was up to Lestrade to finish up whatever was left. Sherlock kept his gaze on John’s face, taking in the almost bland expression, noting the faint pinched look between his brows, the anger-caused flush creeping up the back of his neck to his ears. Sherlock had never done well with demure, or outright submissive-- in play, maybe, when the endorphins were up and he just wanted to be anything, everything that John wanted-- but John wasn’t asking for a down turned gaze. 

“Alright, then.” John nodded to the far wall of the sitting room, and Sherlock’s mouth firmed in grimace. He hated the corner-- hated the boredom he had to endure while in it, hated the humiliation of knowing he was on display, for anyone to see. Hated having his biggest ability taken away: the ability to observe. And while most pain was for pleasure (the riding crop, the nipple clamps, the palm of John’s hand as Sherlock lay squirming and sweating and writhing across his lap), humiliation was almost always for punishment. To Sherlock’s chagrin-- he would honestly much rather be pushed past pain limits than be embarrassed. 

Apparently, no one had ever informed his libido of this. John’s casual gesture, and the mental image of himself standing obedient in the corner had the effect of a string tied around his cock: he could feel himself twitch upward.

Sherlock went. His world zeroed in on the two perpendicular walls where the wall paper was just beginning to fray. Behind him, John collapsed in a thump onto his chair, and Sherlock could easily discern the rustle of the newspaper over the other homogeneous sounds of the London afternoon.

It was amazing, thinking back on how their relationship had shifted over time. In the beginning, they’d simply been lovers. Kinky lovers (Sherlock wasn‘t one to deny his own nature, especially when John was just so good at it), but it hadn’t held the 24/7 parameters that so many relationships held. Slowly, things had changed. The important parts were all still there: Sherlock still solved crimes and puzzles and left decaying body parts in obscure places, and John remained impressed and overawed, and occasionally saved Sherlock’s life in between evenings of Chinese food and crap telly. They fought over the dishes and made out on the couch (something Sherlock had only done once, with Victor, before he’d disappeared to India with only a good-bye note taped to the bathroom mirror), insulted and yelled at each other and cuddled under John’s quilt. Sherlock shifted periodically between almost normal behavior to days where he couldn’t muster the urge to eat/drink/talk because everything was just so dull, and John spent days at work, then hours at the pub, cheering over some rugby match (or even, God forbid, football), falling in bed only to sleep. They ate together, fucked together, played together, Sherlock solved crime and John went to work, and it was as normal a relationship as they were capable of having. 

But things did shift, from restraints and spankings, nipple clamps and floggings, to an actual relationship. John had become more than just the occasional playmate, he’d become Sherlock’s, just as much as Sherlock had become John’s. And John was good: he knew just where to strike, where to command, where to refuse contact and finally where to soothe and praise, to hold and own. And for the first time since Uni, Sherlock found himself wanting all of that, all the time.

But while John was fine with the games-- he liked being a once-a-week dom, liked causing pain where pain was appreciated, liked holding things down, loved the pleadings and begging and causing complete and utter pleasure for his partners-- it took much longer for him to become accustomed to the actual relationship. Because he liked his partners unique: he loved Sherlock’s pride and self-independence, and had been under the impression that a normal Dom would be a limit on Sherlock’s creativity. Slowly, Sherlock had talked him down, had gotten him to accept a full-on relationship. Because Sherlock did nothing by halves. 

The sharp strike of the riding crop against the back of his thigh tugged Sherlock out of the past. “You’re not thinking on it. Why are you there?” Of course John could reach him from his seat. Sherlock straightened up, clenched and relaxed his hands where they hung at his side, and closed his eyes, blocking out his boring, static view of the corner. The heat in his thigh pulsed in concert with the rest of his marks.

Unfortunately, Sherlock would always be Sherlock and submission only went so far. “Because you and everyone else are completely incompetent. How does it feel to be as dim-witted as the members of Scotland Yard? It must be highly enjoyable, to not be me.” He knew he was pushing; even as the words left his mouth, he knew exactly where the afternoon was headed. 

Sherlock could hear the rustle of fabric as John stood and he tensed, nearly turning around at the sound. A warm hand at the nape of his neck halted him. “Stay put.” John’s voice was cold, and Sherlock responded, shoulders going slack while his trousers seemed to shrink a size.

He could hear John’s steps as he left the room, headed to the stairway. Heavier tread on the stairway, quick steps across the floor of John’s room to his dresser. A quiet thud as the drawer shut. The return stampede of steps down and out into the sitting room, and a quick detour into the kitchen. Sherlock pressed his face against the wall, fully aware of what was coming and dreading every moment of it. 

His cock, oblivious to more rational emotions, swelled up even more. 

John stopped behind Sherlock’s passive form. “Hands behind your back.” 

Sherlock tried to clasp his fingers behind himself, only to find John pulling his hands apart, arranging him the way John wanted him. He bent Sherlock’s arms so that his hands clasped his elbows, forced him to step back away from the wall and kicked his feet further apart. Then he grasped the back of Sherlock’s neck, forcing his face forward until his nose brushed the wall again. The position left Sherlock feeling even more on display. His face flushed, he squeezed his eyes shut, only to have them fly back open when John reached for the snap on his trousers. “John--”

“Quiet.” John made quick work of the fastenings, then tugged slacks and pants down to Sherlock’s knees. The air was cool against Sherlock’s striped flesh. “I think you’ve said enough for a while. You are allowed one word only, unless I ask you a direct question or tell you to say something.” Something cool and plastic slipped between Sherlock’s legs, and it took a moment for him to realize it was a lubricant applicator. “What’s the word?”

“Red.” The color system, the same rules from the very beginning. Dull. Too bad that, for these sessions, yellow no longer applied. Hell, yellow was what John aimed for. 

“Say it again.”

“Red.” Sherlock didn’t even try to keep the irritation out of his voice. He hadn’t ever forgotten the words. He probably couldn’t. But if John picked up on the irritation, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he wrapped one hand around Sherlock’s hip, and depressed the injector, shooting petroleum jelly up Sherlock’s backside. 

The sensation of fluid traveling the reverse way never failed to make Sherlock squirm: he tried to pull away, rising up onto his toes. The hand at his waist didn’t let him get far. “Settle,” John growled, and Sherlock dipped his head, pushing his forehead into the wall. John didn’t reprimand him for that. Instead, he lined up a medium-sized plug and pushed it in. It was big enough to stretch a bit uncomfortably, not large enough to actually be painful, and Sherlock struggled to relax around it. Soon, it bottomed out in his arse.

Sherlock had no problem imagining what he looked like-- after all, his imagination was something he prided himself on. Standing face to the wall, back arched, shoulders back, arms behind him, with a plug sticking out of his slicked up, red-lined arse. His face burned, and his cock hardened even more.

John released his hip and turned away for a moment. It wasn’t long before he was back. One warm hand wrapped under Sherlock’s jaw, and pried open his mouth. The bitter taste of soap ran along Sherlock’s tongue. “Bite.”

Sherlock did, lips pulled back. John patted his hip then withdrew. Sherlock could hear the groan of his chair as he sat down, the rustle of the newspaper being reopened. “We’ll start over,” John said, almost pleasantly, as if they were having a discussion over tea and biscuits. Sherlock barely managed to bite off a groan, and did his best not to rut against the empty air. 

~~

 

“Now then,” John said twenty minutes and thirty-two seconds later. Sherlock could feel the soap dripping down his mouth, the pain in his arse had begun to blend into the ache of holding position for so long, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his face into John’s lap. It didn’t make sense, that such a childish punishment could make him feel cowed. The intellectual part of him scoffed at the whole procedure. The submissive part of him didn’t care, and only wanted the Master’s approval again. 

“Why are you in the corner, Sherlock?”

Sherlock waited a moment, positive that John would rise from his chair to remove the soap. When John showed no signs of moving, Sherlock released his hands, reaching up for the soap.

“Stop.” Sherlock froze. “Back into position.” Slowly, he reached back behind him, gripped his elbows. “You’re unfocused today,” John commented, rising from the chair again and sliding a hand down Sherlock’s flank. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “Do we need to discuss obedience again?”

Sherlock shook his head, and John sighed. “It was a direct question, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s face flushed, and he managed to mumble out a “no” from around the bar of soap. When John repeated his earlier question, Sherlock hesitated, inhaled as deeply as possible through his nose, and mumbled around the bar of foam in his mouth the word “courtroom.” 

“Almost.” John tapped the riding crop against Sherlock’s hips. “Do you need a few more minutes to think?”

Sherlock shook his head, thinking frantically over their conversations since this morning. John was silent, tapping the crop with progressive strength against Sherlock’s flanks. Finally, just when the taps were beginning to edge into pain, the moment flew up in front of Sherlock. “Disobedience,” he whispered. 

Somehow John heard him. “Exactly.” The crop came down again, creating a thin line of heat that went straight to Sherlock’s groin. “I know you think faster than the rest of us mere mortals, Sherlock. I know you’re much more clever than us. I also know that, officially collared or not, you’re still my Sub. Shall I tell you why I find this all so annoying?”

“Because it reflects badly on you,” Sherlock sighed around his bar of soap. Pedantic.

John sounded surprised. “What? No, you bloody git. Would you like a bit longer to think if over? I can wait all day.” 

Sherlock shook his head frantically. He’d been in the corner all day (thirty-one minutes, anyway, which was really close enough to the same thing) already; any longer and he thought he’d go insane. “John, please.”

Another quiet sigh. “It reflects badly on you, you nit.” Fond exasperation. Sherlock could deal wit that much easier than cold detachment. “It makes you look uncontrolled and childish.”

“So a childish punishment?” Sherlock muttered around his bar of soap, then hoped John would mistake it for something else. But apparently John’s soap-ese was better than Sherlock would have given him credit for, because the crop snapped down again, on the back of Sherlock’s thighs. 

“Enough. I can leave you here, if you’d rather.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply. He lowered his face so that the bridge of his nose and forehead were braced against the wall and whispered, face heating up as he did so, “I’m sorry.”

John said nothing to this, merely rubbed Sherlock’s lower back, and for a moment Sherlock panicked, horrified that this act of debasement wouldn’t be enough. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Apparently, it was. “You have five minutes,” John, reached around and grasped at Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock gasped, straightened up and rocked up onto his toes as he finally found the friction he’d been wanting. “You may take care of this now, and we’ll finish up, or you can wear the chastity device for the evening and we’ll still finish up.” He released Sherlock, then grasped him by the back of the neck when he tried to turn. “And you’ll do it facing the wall either way.”

It shouldn’t be as humiliating as it sounded. It was forced masturbation: Sherlock had been ordered to masturbate before. But this time, instead of doing it for John’s pleasure, he was doing it to be rid of a symptom. Sherlock reached up to the soap still in his mouth, slid his hand through the foam, then back down to his cock. He pumped feverishly, wanting nothing more than to avoid the chastity belt. 

The seconds ticked by, and Sherlock realized he wasn’t going to make it. His body didn’t always respond the correct way: he couldn’t always get himself off, and knowing that John was standing there, knowing that he’d soon be pushed into a plastic mold…

Suddenly, a sharp, deep pain centered out of his arse as John pressed two fingers almost violently against the plug still protruding from Sherlock’s arse. It ground deep inside of him, rubbing almost violently against his prostrate, and Sherlock couldn’t for the life of him imagine anything that felt better. John’s other hand wrapped forward around Sherlock’s throat, and he whispered harshly, breath tickling the shell of Sherlock’s ear: “Come for me.”

And Sherlock did, hard enough to white out his vision. His teeth nearly bit through the soap still in his mouth, his hand still worked in sporadic pumps at his cock, his other hand coming up involuntarily to clutch at John’s forearm, an anchor to hold onto. Semen spurted against the wallpaper, a pale smear against red and yellow.

Finally, spent, he collapsed backwards against John. John reached up and pulled the soap from his mouth, turned Sherlock’s face to the side and pressed his lips against his cheek, his jaw, his throat. “So good,” he murmured into Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock felt that small glow of pride. “So beautiful.”

He turned Sherlock around completely, and, ignoring the soap still plastered and drying to his lips, kissed him. “You have sixty seconds. Go rinse out your mouth, clean the wall, and be back here on your knees before I say time, and I’ll reward you for having taken your punishment so well.”

A reward. It could be something simple, like the pleasure of sucking John’s cock until he shot down Sherlock’s throat. But, knowing John, it wouldn’t be anything so pedantic: his rewards, like his punishments, were centered around what Sherlock loved (or in the case of punishment, hated) the most. Perhaps the feel of the riding crop against his arse some more, or the nipple clamps while John fucked him. The suspension ropes, locked away in the case in Johns closet. The images flitted through Sherlock’s brain in a matter of seconds. 

“Yes, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title a reference to a Poe song (Hey Pretty), because I am totally incapable of coming up with my own titles. Seriously: there should be a medical condition for how bad I am at it.  
> Sorry if Sherlock comes across as a bit (read: lot) out of character... He doesn't always cooperate. And I know 'sub' isn't usually capitalized, but it's Sherlock's POV, and I don't see him allowing the distinction.


End file.
